“But the lock is damaged,” I said.
He did not look at me again, his fingers tapping against the edge of his pocket watch.
Our small apartment was cold by ten o’clock, the draft from the kitchen window letting in the smell of damp street asphalt.
I sat on the edge of the mattress while Leo boiled water for tea, the red ink of our six hundred dollar rent notice visible on the small kitchen table.
I reached under the bed, my fingers finding the dusty corner of the heavy three-ring binder my husband had left behind.
The blue cover was split down the spine, but the handwritten lock schematics inside were still clean and dry.
Leo came over and sat beside me, his cold feet tucked under his legs as I turned the pages.
He stopped my hand when we reached a hand-drawn diagram of a triple-bolt mechanical system.
“Some locks are meant to keep people out, but others are meant to keep things from escaping,” I said, repeating the words his father had told me.
Leo traced the ink lines of the inner locking pins with his thumb.
“The pins have to line up perfectly,” he said. “If one is off by a hair, the cylinder jams.”
“The safe at the office is stiffer than it used to be,” I said. “On Tuesday, it took three tries to turn the dial.”
“It is because of the scratch,” Leo said.
“We should not worry about it,” I said, though my thumb kept rubbing my bare wrist.
By nine the next morning, the sun was bright against the glass of the executive lobby, but the air inside still felt heavy.
I was carrying the small wire wastebasket out of Julian’s office when he stepped through the main doors.
His pinky finger was spinning the gold signet ring so fast it made a tiny clicking sound against his knuckle.
“Rosa,” he said, his voice loud enough to make the receptionist look up from her desk.
“Yes, Mr. Julian?” I said, holding the bin against my apron.
“Did you touch the brass dial on my wall safe yesterday?”
His eyes were small and sharp, staring straight at my face while he stopped his ring with his thumb.
